Genesis. Volume 2

October 25, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Day. Arthur stood before his open closet, staring at his clothes. T-shirts, jeans, sweaters—all of it suddenly felt foreign. As if he were packing for someone else, some other guy he barely even knew. Outside, the rain drizzled. The same rain as yesterday, and the day before. It hadn't stopped for days, and it felt like all of Brookfield was soaked through to its very bones. Water streamed down the windows, blurring the outlines of trees and rooftops into one gray smear. Arthur took an old T-shirt from the shelf—gray, with a faded band logo he'd listened to two years ago. He folded it, tossed it into his backpack. Next to it—socks, underwear, a spare shirt. Everything as usual. Everything like any other trip. Only this trip wasn't ordinary. He glanced at the bed. There, on top of his backpack, lay a bundle—an old sweater wrapped around the three dagger shards. Two of them were cold. One was warm. The one holding the Maestro. Arthur didn't know if you could even travel with something like that. Didn't know how dangerous it was. He only knew one thing—he couldn't leave them here. Not in this house. Not near his family. There was a knock at the door. "Come in." The door creaked open. Lisa stood on the threshold. Her right arm was still in its sling, but her left hand clutched a sketchbook—dog-eared, scribbled over and drawn on through a year of war. "Packing?" she asked. "Yeah." "Need help?" "I got it." She walked in, sat on the edge of the bed. Looked at the backpack, the sweater bundle, the open closet. "Did you pack warm clothes? London's cold." "Emma mentioned it." "Then take the sweater. The one Mom knitted." Arthur looked at her. Pale, gaunt—but her eyes held the same fire as before. Despite the pain. Despite the broken arm. "You're not coming," he said. "I am." "Lisa, your arm..." "I'm coming." Her voice grew stronger, harder. "I'm not staying here. Not after Chicago. Not after learning to draw with my left hand." "Can you draw with your left hand?" "I'm learning. It's crooked, but it works. It's enough." Arthur wanted to argue, but he didn't bother. Arguing with her was pointless—he knew that. Lisa always did what she decided. Even if it was dangerous. Even if it could kill her. "Then pack," he said. "We leave in two days." "I'm already packed." She nodded toward the hallway, where her backpack stood. Small, blue, with a faded unicorn patch. She'd carried it since fifth grade. "The same backpack?" Arthur asked. "The same." She smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching. "A talisman." "You believe in talismans?" "I believe that if I take it, I'll come back. Stupid, right?" "No," Arthur said. "Not stupid." They fell silent. The rain hissed against the window. Downstairs, Sofia clattered pots. "Arthur," Lisa called. "Yeah?" "Do you remember the first time we went into the mansion?" "I remember." "I was shaking. Like a leaf in the wind. But I went. Because you said, 'We're together.'" "And?" "And I'm going now. Because you'll say it again." Arthur looked at her. At her pale face, her bandaged arm, the sketchbook she hugged to her chest like a shield. "We're together," he said. "Then I'm coming." She stood, stepped toward him, and wrapped her left arm around him in an awkward hug—like it was the first time she'd ever hugged anyone. He pulled her close. Her hair smelled of shampoo and hospital—that sterile, cold smell that no shampoo could wash away. "Thank you," she whispered. "For what?" "For not leaving me." "I'll never leave you." She pulled back, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand. "Alright." Her voice trembled, then steadied. "I need to draw. Circles. A lot of circles." She left. Arthur was alone again. He closed the closet, zipped up his backpack, and set it on the floor. Then he walked to the window. Down on the street, Max stood. He was smoking—though he hadn't smoked in days—and staring up at the sky. The smoke rose and dissolved into the drizzle. Arthur went downstairs, stepped out onto the porch. "Smoking?" he asked. "No." Max stubbed the cigarette out on the railing. "Just holding it." "You're lying." "Everyone lies." They stood in silence. The rain drizzled lightly, droplets settling on their faces—cold, prickly. "Ready?" Arthur asked. "No," Max replied. "But I'm going." "Why?" "Because if I stay here, I'll go crazy. In this town, I see shadows. I feel like someone's watching me. Like someone's standing around the corner, waiting." "Kane?" "I don't know. Maybe I'm imagining it." Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll make it." "I know." "How can you be so sure?" "Because we always make it. Even when we shouldn't." They went back inside. Sofia had set the table—dinner no one wanted to eat. But they sat down, picked up their forks, and pretended to eat. Mark was silent. He looked at his son, and there was something in his eyes—not fear, not anger. Acceptance. "I'm proud of you," he said. Arthur looked up. "For what?" "For not giving up. Even when it's scary." "I'm not scared." "You're lying." "Everyone lies, Dad." Mark smiled—for the first time in days. "That's true." They finished—or pretended to finish. Sofia cleared the plates. Then she sat down beside Arthur, took his hand—tightly, as if afraid to let go. "Will you call when you land?" "Definitely." "Every day?" "I'll try." "Don't try. Do it." He nodded. That evening, before bed, Arthur went down to the basement. A light was on—Claire had left a lamp when she'd gone. On the table—maps, drawings, letters. On the wall—a plan of London Lisa had drawn the night before, with uneven lines, using her left hand. He sat at the table, pulled out his notebook. Began to write. "Things to do before London: 1. Check the dagger shards. 2. Contact Sasha—she promised to get tickets. 3. Call Elias—warn him we're coming. 4. Say goodbye to Jack. 5. Don't forget the chalk—Lisa said she won't fly without it." He set the pen down. The list was short. Too short. Something gnawed inside him—like he'd missed something important. "6. Don't die," he added. That was the most important item. And the hardest. He closed the notebook and went back upstairs. The hallway was dark. Only moonlight came through the window, casting long, slanted shadows on the floor. Arthur glanced into Lisa's room. She was asleep, curled in a ball, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. Her face was peaceful, almost childlike—if you ignored the bandages on her right arm. He adjusted her blanket, stood there for a second, listening to her breathe, then left. Max's room was lit. The door was slightly ajar. Arthur peeked inside. Max sat on the bed, gripping his knife. Not sharpening it—just gripping, his knuckles white. "Can't sleep?" Arthur asked. "I'm sleeping." "With a knife?" "It's safer with a knife." Arthur sat down beside him, the bed sagging under their combined weight. "Are you scared?" "No." "You're lying." "Everyone lies," Max repeated without turning. They sat in silence. "Tomorrow we'll go see Jack," Arthur said. "Say goodbye." "Will he understand?" "I don't know. But we have to." Max nodded, a short jerk of his chin. "Then get some sleep. Early start tomorrow." "And you?" "I'll sit a while. Can't sleep." Arthur patted his shoulder and left. The hallway was silent, only the clock ticking on the wall—steady, monotonous, like the heartbeat of the sleeping city beyond the window. He went upstairs, lay down, closed his eyes. Shadows danced behind his lids. Somewhere on the hill, in the Genesis mansion, a gray light burned. Someone with a red eye watched the city. "We'll come back," Arthur thought. "I promise." He fell asleep an hour later. And he dreamed of London. Gray, foggy, with tall buildings and narrow streets. And a man in a suit, smiling and saying: "Welcome home, Arthur." He woke in a cold sweat, his sheet sticking to his back. The clock showed three in the morning. No one beside him. Only silence, and the rain drizzling outside—fine, indifferent. He didn't sleep again. October 26, 1986. Brookfield. The Genesis mansion. Morning. They arrived at the mansion at ten in the morning. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained gray and heavy, as if pressed down from above. Tree branches swayed in the wind, dropping the last droplets. The gate squealed pitifully when Arthur pushed it open with his shoulder. The mansion's door stood ajar—as if they were expected. "He knows we're here," Max said. "He always knows." They entered. Inside, it smelled of dampness, dust, and that sweet, viscous scent that had become familiar, almost like home. Arthur turned on his flashlight. The beam caught the staircase, the doors, the old photographs on the walls—frozen strangers' faces behind dusty glass. Jack sat in the basement. He didn't move—just sat, his back against the wall, staring at one spot. His face was gray, his eyes empty. Only the red thread on his wrist pulsed in time with his heartbeat—the only living movement in that body. "Jack," Arthur called. Silence. "Jack, it's us." Slowly, very slowly, Jack turned his head. His mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—stared right at them. But they didn't see. "We're leaving for London," Max said. "In two days." Jack blinked. Something flickered in his eyes—maybe a spark. Maybe just the reflection of the flashlight. "Kane?" he whispered. His voice was foreign, raspy, as if he hadn't spoken in weeks and his throat had forgotten how. "Yes," Arthur said. "We're going to stop him." Jack fell silent again. Then his lips moved. "Blood..." he whispered. "Blood..." "What?" Max leaned forward. But Jack had already turned back to the wall. His fingers moved across the concrete floor, scratching invisible patterns—over and over, tracing the same outline. Arthur stepped closer, crouched beside him. "Jack," he said. "We'll come back. I promise." No response. Arthur pulled a red thread from his pocket—the very one they'd worn from the beginning. He unwound it, held it out to Jack. "This is for you. So you remember." Jack stared at the thread with a long, murky gaze. Then slowly, clumsily, he took it. His fingers fumbled, the thread slipped and fell to the floor. He picked it up again—and this time pressed it to his chest, holding it tight like something alive. "Thank you," he whispered. The first word in weeks. Arthur squeezed his shoulder—bony, thin, nearly translucent beneath his hand, as if nothing remained under the skin but bone. "Hang in there," he said. "We'll be back soon." They left the basement. On the porch, Max stopped, bracing himself on the railing. "He doesn't remember us," he said. "He does. Somewhere deep." "How do you know?" "Because he took the thread." Max wanted to argue—his mouth opened for the words—but he stopped himself. He stayed silent. They walked away, down the wet path, past the bare bushes. At the gate, Arthur turned back. In the second-floor window, a gray light burned. Someone with a red eye watched them leave. "Hang in there," Arthur thought. "We'll come back." They stepped onto the street. The rain was starting again—first in scattered drops, then heavier.